


A collection

by iMickey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And who Folderort is?, Buckbeak makes an appearance, Do you know what a Partnosus is?, Draco's POV, Fluffy, Hagrid does too, M/M, Timelapses, Young Draco, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11318637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iMickey/pseuds/iMickey
Summary: Young Draco Malfoy has always been interested in those stories about the Boy-Who-Lived, especially because his father refuses to tell him anything about it.Teenage Draco Malfoy is no longer interested in the stories about the Boy-Who-Lived, mostly because he has other things to worry about and the prat is only making his life more difficult.After-war Draco Malfoy is more than interested in the Boy-Who-Lived, rather than the stories about him.One-shot





	A collection

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, time to shine and show you my work. I hope it's okay. I'm sorry if there are any spelling mistakes or typo's. Please let me know if that is the case. And leave positive criticism!

**1991, the start of Draco’s first semester at Hogwarts**

It _was_ Harry Potter. It had to be. Crabbe and Goyle wouldn’t randomly tell him there was a boy named Harry Potter, if it wasn’t _the_ Harry Potter. He hadn’t told them the extent of his _excitement_ to meet the Boy-Who-Lived, but they knew he was eager to meet him. He tried to tamp down his nerves. A Malfoy was not nervous to meet someone. Others were nervous to meet a Malfoy. But those non-existent nerves were really playing up now. Deep breaths. The boy will never have to know how much you admire him. And always have admired him.  
  
“It is true then…” he started off, while lounging against a wall, seemingly calm and indifferent.  
  
**1986, when he was six years old  
** Draco snuck up to his room. His father was still ranting about some man called Folderort, and how his death was such a bad thing. That is all his father ever talked about. And about pureblood manners, of course. And about how proud Draco should be of his heritage and family name. All in all, his father talked a lot. But it just wasn’t interesting. Yes, Draco had learned the hard way that he’d better listen, but when his father spoke of Folderort, he was excused. His father seemed to direct his speech to his mother at times like these.  
  
In his room, he took out the little box he kept under his bed. Only Draco could open it, thanks to a spell his mother had cast. She had given it to him as a small present when he successfully flew his broomstick for the first time. “It is for your secret collection, my dragon. To make sure it will _stay_ your secret, and your father won’t find out,” she had said. Draco didn’t understand, but who was he to refuse a present? Especially since it was such a beautiful wooden box with shiny silver clasps on the corners. The lock was a silver snake, curled through two silver holes. If Draco wanted to open the box, he had to stroke along the snake’s body and hiss something. Draco liked to pretend he could speak to snakes. Perhaps one day he would meet someone who could!  
  
Stroking the snake and hissing like one, Draco opened the box. In it, he kept all kinds of articles from _The Daily Prophet_. Long, short, with or without pictures. The only similarity between all those articles, was that they were about Harry James Potter. He had survived some evil attack. No one really knew where he lived now, or whether he was still alive after the attack. However, at least once a week, the paper wrote something about him. They rehearsed his survival, or retold stories about his parents. Draco loved all these stories. The Boy-Who-Lived made him feel like he could do anything. Like he was protected, even if his mother couldn’t protect him. Perhaps his Partnosus would be Harry Potter. Draco smiled smugly to himself. He was only six years old, and he already knew what a Partnosus was. It was something that could protect you from harm, because it was made of happy memories. He only knew what it was, because he heard his father yell about it in the library one day. His father couldn’t make one. But his father didn’t need magic to protect himself. He was strong.  
  
Draco dug in the wooden box, until he found what he was looking for. A small picture of two adults and a baby in their arms. They smiled at the camera, while they walked past. The baby was tugging on his mother’s hair. Draco was never allowed to tug on his mother’s hair. His father always said that it was for plebo– some difficult word Draco couldn’t remember.  
He let his finger feel the corners of the picture. If he understood correctly, and he believed he did, there was an evil man who did bad things. The parents of Harry Potter fought against him, they were very brave. And the evil man –they always call him You-Know-Who, but Draco didn’t know who they meant– killed Potter’s parents. He also wanted to kill the baby, but for some reason, he couldn’t. Something with a mother’s love to protect the child. He should ask his father about it… or better not.  
  
Why his father didn’t like Harry Potter was a mystery for Draco. Draco once asked about Harry Potter, when there was a big article on the cover page of the paper his father was reading. His father started shouting and yelling, and Draco was ushered upstairs by his mother. When Draco was cutting out the article later that day, his father had found him and had become very angry. This time his mother couldn’t send him to his room, because his father was angry _with him_. It was the first time his father had punished him. Draco shuddered at the memory. That had been a year ago, and since then, he had done his best to hide his admiration for Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
**1993, in the hospital wing  
** Bloody Potter. He ruined everything for Draco. Not only was his father getting more and more disappointed in him, because he couldn’t ever beat Potter in Quidditch, but Potter was also able to turn everyone against Draco. Even a hippogriff. Of course he bloody well knew how to approach a hippogriff, and he had done it correctly. Everyone could see that. It was one stupid comment. One misplaced comment. A comment that most hippogriffs didn’t even mind. Draco loved hippogriffs, very much. They were beautiful; silver, great and powerful. Running over land, soaring through the air… Draco wasn’t stupid enough to upset a hippogriff on purpose, and he wouldn’t want to!  
  
Alright, _yes_ , he did make a snarky comment. It wasn’t meant as an insult, however! He liked the animal. It was clear in the tone of his voice, and the hippogriff must have known it. But Potter was a favourite of Hagrid, and hippogriffs sensed such partiality. And Draco was, obviously, not so dear to the Big Oaf. So, every tiny thing Draco would do that _could_ be taken as disrespectful, _would_ be taken so. It happened all the time, really. Potter stayed out after curfew, he was rewarded points for bravery. Draco stayed out after curfew because his mother had a rough time at home, and Slytherin lost points for disobeying the rules.  
  
And now, he was lying in the hospital. Given, he was exaggerating. How could he not? He only got his father’s attention when he showed his more dramatic side. Perhaps his father would now do something in Draco’s favour, instead of scrunching up his nose at every tiny mistake he made. How had it come to this?  
  
**1987, when he was seven years old  
** The wooden box was still hidden under his bed. It was also still filled with scraps of articles, pictures and small merchandise items. He just couldn’t add to his collection anymore. His father already knew that he was fan of the Boy-Who-Lived, because he found the articles two years ago. But just last Christmas, his father had found him cutting out another article. He had been furious. Draco was forced to eat in his room every day for a week, and his father had ignored him for an extra week after that.  
He still had no idea why his father hated Harry Potter so much, but he had an inkling. It must have had something to do with Voldemort, the man he was still mourning. Perhaps he had been killed by “You-Know-Who” as well, and his father was angry because Harry Potter survived.  
He also still had no idea who “You-Know-Who” was. He tried asking his father one time, but that didn’t work out so well. His father started up one of his rants, and Draco fled to his room again. If it stayed this way, he would have to read the papers to actually get some knowledge on it. And those papers seemed boring.  
  
He pulled the box from under his bed. Stroking the sides of it, he admired the handiwork. It didn’t get old or weak, because of a spell his mother taught him. It stayed young and pretty for ever. Draco grinned. If only. His finger trailed the snake, who started to move to unlock the box. The lid opened right after. Draco rummaged in the box, until he found something he hadn’t seen in a while. The picture where James and Lily Potter –he had learned the names of Harry Potter’s parents– were walking past a camera, with baby Harry in their arms. The baby was tugging his mother’s hair, over and over again. His mother smiled indulgently at him. His father look at Lily Potter with more warmth and love than Draco could ever imagine looking at someone else. They didn’t hide their emotions behind a mask, like his parents did. It made them look vulnerable. No wonder that man was able to kill them.  
  
Draco immediately felt guilty. Unnecessary, really, because he didn’t even know this Harry Potter. He shouldn’t feel guilty about thinking such a thing. They did seem vulnerable. But it was still sad that someone would have to lose his parents. Harry Potter wasn’t forgotten in the Wizarding World, but no one knew where he lived or what he looked like. The boy had not only lost his parents, but simultaneously lost his Wizarding life.  
  
Perhaps he was a Squib. Could Harry Potter be a Squib? That would explain why he didn’t live in the Wizarding World, or at least, why no one was able to find him. Draco suddenly felt like he was punched in the gut. If his hero was a Squib, he would never be able to meet him. He would never see him walking in Diagon Alley, he would never shake his hand, or invite him to his home. His father wouldn’t allow it. Ever. Oh, please, let Harry Potter be a wizard!  
  
He was being stupid. Of course Harry Potter was a wizard. How could he not be? Otherwise he couldn’t have beaten You-Know-Who. And even if he wasn’t, Draco Lucius Malfoy was not going to beg. He didn’t care whether Harry Potter would shake his hand. Harry Potter should be honoured to shake Draco’s hand.  
  
With a few quick movements, Draco closed the box and shoved it back under his bed. He wanted a glass of water. “Dobby!” he called, trying to sound as strong as his father. The young house-elf appeared immediately to answer his every order. “A glass of water, please.”  
  
**1995, at Christmas break, in the Manor  
** After last year, one would think that Potter was invincible. He survived the Triwizard Tournament. And of course he was right about the other thing. The Dark Lord was back, and He had killed Diggory. Draco had never talked to the boy, but even he didn’t see why the Dark Lord had had to kill him. It was a Hufflepuff. He wouldn’t do any harm.  
There was nothing to be done about it now. Draco had more important things to worry about.  
  
Potter had set up a fighting club. Guess who wasn’t invited. Very good! Slytherins!  
Prejudiced bastards, that Golden Trio. Not that it mattered to Draco. He could make his way to greatness through this Inquisitorial Squad. Sucking up to Professor Umbridge wasn’t difficult; she had the ego of a hippogriff. She just wasn’t as intelligent.  
  
The Inquisitorial Squad was horrible. Draco wanted to know all about this fighting club, but Umbridge’s inquisitorial methods were terrible. Many students walked around with a scar on their hand. Potter’s scar said ‘I must not tell lies.’ If the tears of all those students meant anything, the scar hurt like hell. And Potter had sat through it without as much as a whimper. Why yes, be brave _and_ have a ridiculously high pain tolerance. Is there anything else that Saint Potter could impress the world with?  
  
Draco sat in his room, overthinking the first half of his fifth year. His father had just talked his ears of about taking the Dark Mark and marrying Pansy. Draco could have a lot, but never would he marry Pansy. She was not exactly his type. He couldn’t tell his father this. “Malfoy’s don’t marry for love, Draco. They marry for power.” Draco couldn’t care less. Pansy’s family had no power or money to speak of. The only reason his parents wanted him to marry Pansy was because it was the only one Draco would even consider.  
He wondered whether his mother knew about – that. If she knew, and supported his father in the marrying discussion, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He would have to do exactly as his father said.  
The other subject of his father’s monologue –the creepy one, Draco ignored. Except that he couldn’t ignore the worries whirling through his brain.  
Taking the Dark Mark would mean siding with the Dark Lord for eternity. Draco couldn’t ever say this out loud, especially not in the Manor, but he doubted whether the Dark Lord would be able to defeat Potter and his fan base. So taking the Dark Mark would mean being on the losing side. It would mean either death or lifelong exile from his home and from society.  
  
Oh, how he longed to the days where he didn’t have to think of these things.  
  
**1989, when he was nine years old  
** He had asked his father what the tattoo on his left forearm was. His father waved him away. When he asked his mother, she looked sad for a second, before she schooled her expression. “It is a political mark,” she said shortly. However much he pushed and manipulated, she would not tell him more. She passed him the paper she had finished reading and stood up from the table. Draco stayed put, reading _The Daily Prophet_ and sipping his tea.  
  
The weekly stories about Potter hadn’t subsided yet. Lately, there were rumours about where he lived. Apparently, he lived with some Muggle-family. They had no names of the family, and no address. Draco almost snorted, before he realised that it was unbecoming. But honestly, how could they say Potter lived with Muggles, if they had no definite proof? How had they found out?  
  
Draco frowned. If he lived with Muggles, he probably wouldn’t know about Hogwarts. Was he a Squib, after all? Now, _that_ would make an interesting plot twist. Draco no longer worried about meeting Potter and shaking his hand. He didn’t need Potter’s acquaintance. He was perfectly fine on his own. Every bit of influence he would ever need, he would get from his family name and the family vault. He knew how much his family was worth, unlike the blood traitor families, or muggleborns. He could achieve anything he wished, if only he was prepared to work for it. He didn’t need Potter’s acquaintance.  
  
Standing up, he left the paper on the table for someone else to read or clean, and went up to his room. He closed the door. He didn’t exactly know what to do with his spare time. He didn’t feel like reading, and wasn’t keen on writing his letters. An idea sprang to mind. He knelt at the side of his bed and pulled the wooden box from under it. He hadn’t picked it up in a few months.  
  
It really was a masterpiece. It was made of Ebony wood. Not only was that wood beautiful and expensive, it was also used for lots of wands. Draco didn’t know much about wand lore, but he knew that Ebony wands mostly chose wizards and witches who were strong in their beliefs. He hoped one day he would own an Ebony wand.  
The silver of the snake was pure. There wasn’t a trace of other elements in it. As a young boy, Draco had admired the box, but had never truly known the worth of it. Now he did. His mother had really gone out of her way to give him this.  
  
While admiring the box and thinking of his mother, his fingers automatically went for a picture, deep down inside. Without looking at it, he trailed his fingertips over the baby that was Harry Potter. In his head, he played the photograph over and over again, before actually looking at it. The baby was tugging his mother’s hair again. The emotions on the parents’ faces were plain and for all to see.  
  
Draco wondered who had taken the picture. He had even forgotten how he got it in his possession. It was not from _The Daily Prophet_ , he knew that. But where did it come from?  
He imagined the picture was taken by a good friend of the family. Someone who loved them dearly. A godfather, but not like Severus was his godfather. More like a second father to the child. A safe haven. Perhaps someone who felt like a brother to James Potter.  
  
And if this godfather, this addition to the family had taken the photo, how had Draco gotten it? He hadn’t stolen it. Merlin, he wasn’t a thief. He would never do something like that. Then, perhaps, had someone given it to him? His father surely hadn’t. Severus hadn’t. And no one else he knew, would give him a present that wasn’t political nor approved by his father. So how had he gotten the thing?  
  
He heard footsteps coming closer to his door. He couldn’t tell whether it was his father or his mother. Scrambling to get up –a Malfoy would never be seen kneeling–, he pushed the box under his bed and tried to get to his desk in one movement. The door opened, and his mother came in. Involuntarily, Draco let out a relieved sigh. His mother opened her mother to say something, when her eyes moved to his bed. Draco followed her look.  
  
The box wasn’t under his bed.  
His mother looked at him. “Draco…” she started softly. “We need to talk.” Draco dreaded the talk. He would have to throw everything away. He would be punished by his father. Perhaps he would be kicked out. He messed up.  
  
“I only mean to protect you, love. To make sure you know exactly what you are getting yourself into. Your father doesn’t like Harry Potter, as you know. And I want you to understand what his reasons are.”  
Draco’s eyes widened for a second, before he replaced his mask. He wasn’t to be kicked out. He would finally get to hear the full story. Perhaps even find out who You-Know-Who was.  
  
He sat down on his chair, while his mother prepared herself for what seemed like a long story. The story of the Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
**1996, after the incident on the Astronomy Tower  
** He hated himself. He hated his father. He hated the Dark Lord. He hated Dumbledore. He hated Severus. He hated the Death Eaters. He hated his aunt. He hated Pansy and Blaise and Goyle and Crabbe. He hated his wand, his magic. He hated Hogwarts. He’d never thought he’d say this, but Merlin, he wished he was born a Squib. He wished he hadn’t born a wizard, or even better, hadn’t born at all.  
  
He had followed his father’s order. He had taken the Dark Mark. He had opened the doors for Death Eaters. He had walked up the steps to the Astronomy Tower. He had pulled his wand and sent a spell at Dumbledore. Fine, it didn’t kill the man, it merely disarmed him, but it was more than anyone should have expected of a teenager. He had done everything they had asked of him, except kill his Headmaster.  
  
Dumbledore had offered him protection. His family. But he couldn’t take the offer, because his father wasn’t forced to choose the Dark Lord. His father had chosen voluntarily. Protection was out of the question. Draco could take it, if he wanted to be kicked out of his family. If he wanted to disappoint his mother. And of course put her to risk. So, yes, theoretically, he could have taken the old man up on his offer. But practically? Don’t be a moron.  
He had put his parents in enough danger as it was. Four people knew he hadn’t been able to kill Dumbledore. Severus claimed Draco had done his job, but the other three stayed silent. Draco could be the very reason his mother would be tortured. Because Draco wasn’t strong enough. Draco couldn’t kill a man. Draco hasn’t obeyed an order.  
  
He wished for simpler times. His childhood had been easy enough. But now, it seemed like everything was falling apart. His family wasn’t what it used to be: the Malfoys were distrusted and their only influence was in their vault. His father was getting more and more obsessed with the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord grew stronger, but would eventually fail, Draco was sure of it. Hogwarts wasn’t the safe place it used to be.  
  
And Draco… Draco was sure of himself, and that made him realise he was even more of a disappointment. He was not only unable to obey the Dark Lord, but he would also be unable to produce a Malfoy heir. He could not and would not ever touch a woman voluntarily. He knew it. It just didn’t feel right for him.  
  
In short, everything what was expected of him, was impossible for him. Wasn’t life just great.  
  
**1990, when he was ten years old  
** Dinner was over. It had been interesting; many friends of his father had joined them. The discussions had been heated, like always. His father still thought Draco had no idea of what they were talking about. His mother shot him all-telling looks: keep this to yourself. Show no sign of understanding. Be the unhearing ears he thinks you are.  
  
And after dinner, it had been a fleeting thought through his head. It was so fleeting, that he almost didn’t realise what he had thought. Almost. He had, unfortunately, and so, he found himself in his room. He stood at the side of his bed, contemplating whether he should do it. His father had almost found him fondling an article, last time Draco had opened the box. That was almost a year ago. Draco felt the fear creep through him. Ever since his mother had told him the full story, he had been afraid to touch the box. He had only done it twice. Once the day after she had told him, and once two weeks later.  
  
That time, he had been caught up in one of the articles. When knowing the full background story, it was utterly terrifying. Even though he knew he should never say this out loud, he was glad You-Know-Who was dead. He seemed mental.  
He hadn’t heard the footsteps. He was lucky he had shoved the box under his bed after taking the article out. When his father opened the door, he only had to place his unfinished letter to some friends over the article.  
  
He heart had raced in his chest. His father had come in and had talked about some event coming up. Then he left. After that, Draco had put the article back and shoved the box so far underneath his bed, that he couldn’t reach it from either side.  
  
And now he was standing beside his bed, with his illegally acquired wand in his hand. It was a children’s wand, given, but illegal it was. With a soft “Accio”, he summoned the box in his hand. It was dusty and filthy. A gentle cleaning spell was cast over it. His finger traced the edges of the wood. He didn’t know what kind of wood his wand was, but it was just as dark as the Ebony box. He loved the colour.  
  
He hissed at the silver snake, and the lid opened. On top of the pile was the article his father had almost found him with. He ignored it and dug down deeper. His fingers found a picture of the baby Harry Potter and his parents. Tugging on his mother’s hair, Harry Potter looked focused and determined. Focused on the strands between his chubby hands, determined to find out what it was. If this was Harry Potter, one should not make him angry. The boy must be taken into account. Draco was sure of it. If one had Harry Potter on one’s side, one would be safe. Protected. Valued. One would be able to do anything. One would be free.  
  
Draco put the picture down in the box, under all the other articles and pictures. He closed the lid with all the tenderness he could muster. His hand stroked the wood and the silver. Draco knew his face didn’t show it, but he felt a bit better. Dinner with his father’s friends was interesting, but scary. The discussions were eye-opening, but also crept under Draco’s skin. It was ghastly. They mostly talked about taking over the Ministry, the worth of their Lord and how to get rid of people in their way.  
  
How this box had made him feel better, less worried, was a mystery to Draco. He just treasured the feeling and hoped it would always help him this way.  
  
**1997, after the battle  
** He had tried. Give him a break, he had bloody well tried! He had tried to be a Death Eater, he had tried to be a good person, and none of it worked! He was nothing, and he could do nothing. He was powerless. Powerless to his father, powerless to the Dark Lord and powerless to Potter. He knew it, and he knew Potter knew it. Just give him a chance to work it out. To work out what he was, who he was. He couldn’t do it by himself.  
  
When he had slipped away from the dungeons, he had moved to the Room of Requirement, sure that Potter would be there. And he had been right. He was always right when it came to Potter’s whereabouts and weaknesses.  
  
Draco had raised his wand. He had given himself one last chance. ‘Be the one everyone expects you to be, Draco,’ he had said to himself. ‘This is your last chance to be your father’s son. To be Draco Lucius Malfoy, the Death Eater and son of the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant. Your last chance to make your parents proud.’  
  
But Potter had ruined it. Potter had known he had known who he was, in the Manor. Potter had known he couldn’t do it. Draco had the feeling that Potter knew about his failure with Dumbledore. So, in a perfectly Slytherin way, Potter had broken Draco.  
  
Then, Potter had saved Draco. Saved his life. And Draco knew. He couldn’t be a Death Eater. Even if his relationship with Potter wasn’t as complicated as it was, Draco couldn’t be a Death Eater. He couldn’t kill people. From now on, he would never be on the bad side again. Perhaps he wouldn’t be a good person, like Potter was, but at least he could be sort of neutral.  
  
But the Dark Lord was walking down the bridge, with his army. Hagrid stood out between them. He was carrying a big lump. The words of the Dark Lord slowly reached Draco’s mind. Potter was dead. And Draco was expected to join his parents.  
  
He ignored his father, not able to trust the man again.  
  
The problem was that his mother called his name. His mother, who knew everything about Draco. Who knew that Draco wouldn’t marry a woman, if he married at all. Who knew about his feelings towards Potter, who knew how difficult it was for him to hate the other boy.  
He slowly covered the distance between the Hogwarts student body and his parents, feeling numb and empty.  
  
**1991, the day before Draco went to catch the Hogwarts Express for the first time  
** Draco was packing his trunk. Well, he was laying out clothes and stuff which the house-elves could put in his trunk. It wasn’t difficult. He knew which robes to take with him, and he didn’t need much else. When his soft socks fell off the bed, he knelt down to retrieve them. They had rolled away, and were now resting against a dark, wooden box. Draco gulped. If he went to Hogwarts and left the box under his bed, the house-elves were destined to find it. And they would give it to his father. And his father would know what was in it. And Draco would be in danger of a major punishment.  
  
But he couldn’t take it with him, could he? If someone were to find the box at Hogwarts, what would they do with it? They wouldn’t be able to open it, of course, but Draco would have to explain himself.  
  
Unless he left it with Severus. He knew Severus wouldn’t ask questions, nor try to open the box with Dark magic. And Severus would probably not tell his father, because Severus didn’t care for his father. He wasn’t afraid of him, either.  
  
Draco quickly wrote a note to his godfather, telling him to keep the box safe and hidden away. Before he called his owl, he opened the box one more time. Quickly finding the picture he was looking for, he stroked the edges of the paper. “Goodbye, Potter. Perhaps I will see you again someday.” Then Draco observed Potter’s parents. They seemed so strong, so happy. Like a true family.  
  
Putting the picture away, Draco called his owl and attached the parchment to the box. The owl flew away.  
  
It was safe now. Draco was safe. He would never have to see the box again, either. He could stop this obsession with Potter. He could start living a life without the influence of Harry Potter, without the boy making an appearance in his mind every now and then. It was a chapter Draco could end.  
  
**1998, after Draco’s trial  
** Draco had sat through his trial with burning nerves. Potter had been speaking in his favour, had been trying to get Draco out. Potter had saved him, again. If only the boy had any idea what that meant to him.  
  
Potter had also spoken in favour of his mother, and if possible, that meant more to Draco. His father was sent to Azkaban without a further thought, but his mother got a gentler treatment. She had to see Azkaban from the inside for only a few years, before she would be free again. And Draco would stay free. He wouldn’t have to go to Azkaban. All thanks to Potter.  
  
The only problem was that Draco had testified against his father. When everyone had thought the trial was over, Draco stood up from where he sat and said: “I would like to testify.” A murmur had gone through the crowd. His father looked proudly to his son, and his mother’s brow furrowed in thought. The judge had told him he wasn’t allowed to testify in this trial, but Draco had interrupted him.  
  
“Let me be clear. I would like to testify _against_ Lucius Malfoy.”  
  
It had been silent in the courtroom. Draco hadn’t look at his parents. He only cared about what he would see in his mother’s eyes, and had known it would break his heart. So, he stepped forward and testified against the man who he had feared, obeyed and trusted all his life.  
  
When their trials were over, his parents were brought away, through a door that let them to Azkaban. His mother was allowed to say goodbye to Draco for a moment. She held his hand and smiled softly up to him, sitting a bit higher than where she stood. “Draco, love. You are so much like Sirius Black. You just had less chances. Forgive me for that.”  
  
Draco frowned. “Who is Sirius Black, mother?” he asked as softly as she talked.  
“Ask Mr. Potter.”  
  
After that, she was pulled away from him. His father, Lucius, had stood next to his mother, and now it was only him standing in front of Draco. His mind was whirling with his mother’s words. Who was Sirius Black?  
He noticed, however, that the blond man was scrutinising him. Draco looked at him, actually _looked_. All he saw was the massive aura of arrogance. No sign of regret or humility. At that moment, Draco decided that he would never be like Lucius. When realising this, he straightened his back. He squared his shoulder. He raised his chin so it was parallel to the ground. He looked the man dead in the eye. He hoped his appearance said “pride” and “strength”, but he couldn’t know for sure.  
  
Lucius was taken aback by seeing his son. Draco saw a muscle in his jaw flutter and his eyes widen, before the mask fell back.  
  
“You are not my son,” Lucius said finally. His voice was soft and low, like Draco remembered it from when he was punished. He suppressed a shiver.  
“That is correct. Because _you_ are not my father,” Draco answered, in a voice much like Potter’s.  
  
He caught his mother’s gaze and she smiled. After this, Draco turned away before Lucius could say anything else. It was done.  
  
There was a storm in his mind. Who was this Sirius Black? A lost brother, perhaps? And what would Potter know about it?  
  
He kept thinking about it while walking away from the courtroom. When he moved to open the door and go outside, he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and saw Potter and Kingsley Shacklebolt standing behind him. Potter quickly removed his hand from Draco’s shoulder.  
  
“Malfoy,” he said.  
“Potter.” Draco’s posture was still. He reeked like defeat, and he knew it. Potter wouldn’t do anything with it, and that was the only reason that Draco didn’t walk away this very moment.  
  
“Thank you,” Potter mumbled. Draco’s felt himself frown. For what? Only then he saw the wand in Potter’s hands. His hawthorn wand.  
  
It was a long silence that ensued. Draco carefully picked up the wand and curled his fingers around it. It felt good.  
  
Before Draco could say anything, Shacklebolt started talking.  
“Mr. Malfoy, I hate to tell you at this moment, but it needs to be done. When Severus Snape died, he had written a will. Many of his Potions ingredients and items will go to Hogwarts, but he has given you some of it as well. Is there a place we can send it to?”  
  
Draco winced at the way he was addressed, got furious at how casually Shacklebolt mentioned Severus’ death and became confused when he started about the will. Severus had left him stuff? Potions stuff?  
  
“It can be brought to the Manor. I will try to find a new home soon, but until then, the Manor will be fine.”  
  
**1999, at the Manor, when all Severus’ stuff finally arrived  
** “This is the last of it, Malfoy,” Potter said. He had hung around ever since the trials, even though Draco tried to get rid of him. Luckily, the man didn’t come by that often. But with Severus’ belongings being moved into the Manor, Potter had forced himself upon Draco to help with unpacking.  
  
Draco was opening all kinds of bags and boxes that kept ingredients, spoons, cauldrons and so much more. He felt like drooling over all this beautiful equipment.  
  
“Malfoy, what is this?” Potter asked.  
“Hmm?” Draco hummed, not able to tear his eyes away from the wonderful materials in front of him.  
“Here, look at this. What is it, do you know?”  
Draco turned around to see Potter holding something in his hands. His mouth fell open and Draco’s posture stilled. He swallowed heavily.  
  
For the first time in about nine years, he thought about the box. His collection. His secret. He swallowed again. Severus had kept it. He had given it back.  
  
“Malfoy?”  
Draco woke up from his trance, snatched the box from Potter’s hands and turned his back to the guy. To see Potter holding that was far too much for him to handle.  
  
“Could you go away?” Draco asked. “Just for a minute or two.”  
Potter protested, until Draco sent a glare his way.  
“Two minutes it is.”  
“Make it five,” Draco added quickly.  
  
He sat down on the divan and placed the box gently on the coffee table in front of him. He stroked the wood, along the edges and over the lid. He daren’t touch the snake. He remembered how, as a small child, he wished to meet someone who was a Parselmouth. He shuddered now, as a young man, to remember the man he knew who could speak Parseltongue.  
  
He also remember how he had tried to be like his father, in posture, strength and voice. He looked up to him, admired him. Time and growing up had ruined that for him.  
  
He didn’t notice Potter coming back into the room and sitting across from him. Draco took a deep breath and let his finger slide of the silver snake. He softly hissed. The snake started moving and unlocked the heavy lid. The box opened itself. Draco stretched his hand to take an article, but it hovered above the pile. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pick up an article and read it again.  
Without his permission, his fingers dug deeper in the pile and retrieved a picture. The edges were smudged, and the paper had been crumpled one too many times. There were small tears, and some parts of the picture had faded. The movement was still clear enough. Potter was tugging his mother’s hair. Strength and confidence oozed from his parents, while they looked down at their child. They loved the child. They had given up their lives to save the child.  
  
He knew he had forgiven his mother for the chances he didn’t get, like she asked him to at their trials. He loved his mother so much. If his life would have been different, perhaps he would have died to save someone he loved so dearly as well.  
  
Thinking back at the trials, Draco remembered the other words his mother had spoken. And at once, Draco knew who had taken the picture. It must have been –  
  
“Malfoy, what is it?”  
Draco looked up.  
“A collection I had, when I was younger.”  
“Oh.” Potter was silent for a second. “Then why did Snape have it?”  
“I gave it to him.”  
“Oh.”  
Draco sighed and chanced a look in Potter’s eyes.  
  
“When I left for Hogwarts, I didn’t know what to do with it. If I took it with me, it probably would have been taken away from me, because I would never tell anyone what was inside.  
If I left it at home, my parents would find it eventually. They wouldn’t even have to ask what was inside. They would know. And I would be disowned, thrown away, or punished severally. The only choice I had, was to send it to Severus. He would keep my secret, and protect it with his life.”  
  
Potter nodded in understanding. “So what was it? Your collection?”  
Draco fisted his hand. “Nothing.”  
“Come on, Malfoy. You don’t have to be embarrassed. It probably isn’t that bad.”  
“Potter, just keep silent, will you?”  
Potter shut his mouth. Good. Draco went back to looking at the beautiful picture of love and family. He wanted that kind of love so strongly. Slowly, he felt a smile tugging at his lips. The picture always did that to him. It made him feel melancholy, and then good.  
  
He heard a gasp next to him. Draco’s hand flew to the box and slammed it shut, before he turned his gaze to Potter. He knew his eyes told Potter that he had made a mistake. He felt fury gnaw at his insides. “ _What_ exactly do you think you are doing?” he snarled. It sounded more terrifying than he had sounded in about three years. Potter’s expression told him that. It also told him that Potter had seen it.  
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Potter timidly said.  
“There is a reason you bloody well didn’t know.” Draco knew his anger was getting out of control. It was only fuelled by his fear that Potter might find out the _other_ thing as well.  
“Just get out of this house. Now,” he added when Potter tried to protest.  
Potter left, softly closed the door, and Draco was sitting on his divan with the box on his lap. He leafed through every article he had ever cut out and read them again and again.  
  
**1999, at the Ministry Christmas party  
** Draco stood at the bar with a class of champagne in his hand. He was having quite a pleasant conversation with some of his colleagues, when a disgustingly well-known mob of black hair joined the group. He made eye contact with Draco and smiled tentatively. Draco’s gaze stayed icy and dismissing.  
  
The rest of the evening, Potter kept trying to engage Draco in conversation, or just catch his eye. Draco kept moving away and ignoring him. Potter might think he was being unreasonable, but it wasn’t just the box issue.  
  
A few months back, Potter had come out of the closet. Draco distinctly remembers how he found out. Blaise had told him, with Pansy in the room as well. Draco had got into a fit. When he was done ranting, Blaise had asked him why he was so enraged. “Are you against him being gay? Isn’t that a bit hypocritical of you?” he had wondered. Draco had furiously slapped the backside of his head. “No, you moron. It’s just that…”  
Pansy had snickered at that moment. “Go on, Draco. Tell him all the reasons why Potter can’t be gay.”  
  
Blaise had looked between them with a furrowed brow. Draco had sighed and started talking. “You know when I realised I was gay, Blaise? Fifth year or something? Do you know how I found out? Because I noticed a bit too much how good Potter had looked in the tournament, or at the Yule Ball, or –you fill in the rest. Do you understand what I am trying to say here?”  
  
Blaise’s eyes had widened. Then he had started laughing. “So why is it a bad thing then? He’s gay, you’re gay, everyone’s gay and happy. You actually have a shot now.”  
  
Draco had thrown a cushion at Pansy, who had been laughing loudly now, and had slammed his fist into the wall.  
“ _NO_ , Blaise! I _don’t_ have a chance with him. If he had just been straight, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Then I would have known not to try anything. I would have known I had no chance, because he was straight. _Now_ , I know I have no chance with him, because _of who I am,_ Blaise. _Now_ , I have to realise what my last name actually means. _Now_ , I have to face the hard truth that _bloody Potter_ can and will _never_ like me, because of the _war_ , because of _my father_ and because I am nothing more than a filthy _Death Eater_ , and I couldn’t even be that! I am nothing and worth nothing. And now that Potter has come out, I have to face all that, instead of just telling myself I had no chance because he was _straight_. Alright?”  
  
Pansy and Blaise had both stared at him. Draco had picked up a vase that had belonged to his aunt Bellatrix, and had thrown it to the wall. It shattered in pieces. Draco stepped over the mess and marched back to his room.  
  
And now, a gay Potter was trying to talk to him. Probably trying to find out more about the box. Draco felt the need to drink and drink, but he knew it wasn’t a good idea. So he kept it at one glass of champagne and only Cokes for the rest of the evening.  
  
Somewhere around the end of the party, Potter had stopped following him. Draco was relieved about this; he was supposed to have fun. At the bar, he asked for another Coke, when a hand very softly and very fleetingly touched his lower back. He turned around to glare at his assaulter, when he met bright green eyes.  
  
“Potter, please, stop following me,” Draco sighed. “Just … don’t. Alright?”  
Potter smiled at him. “Malfoy. I have something for you. A little Christmas present. I thought I owed you.”  
Draco squinted his eyes suspiciously. “Don’t.”  
Potter only smiled harder. He took Draco’s hand and opened it, palm facing up. He placed something in it, and folded Draco’s fingers over it. Then he smiled again and moved away.  
  
Draco balled the fist Potter’s present was in. It was a piece of paper, small enough to fit into Draco’s hand and not be seen. Draco felt himself shake. He walked up to his colleagues, said his goodbyes and left as quickly as possible. He saw Potter’s eyes following him one more time, when he opened the door, and then Apparated home.  
  
He immediately dropped on the divan, but sprung up again when he saw Pansy and Blaise playing Wizarding chess.  
“Everything alright, Draco?” Blaise asked amiably. When Draco didn’t answer, they both looked up. His face told them all. Pansy came up beside him and gently opened his hand. She picked up the piece of paper and read what was written on it. Her eyes bulged out her head.  
  
“Draco, have you read it?” she asked softly, while passing the paper to Blaise.  
“No. I Apparated straight home. I couldn’t, Pansy. I know it’s nothing good.”  
  
Pansy hid a smile.  
“There is a note, saying it is for you collection. What collection does he mean, Draco?” Blaise interrupted. Draco paled and blushed. With pink tinged ears, he closed his eyes.  
  
“Draco, you should read it.”  
  
Pansy gave the paper back to Draco, while he slowly opened his eyes again. The note on top read:  
“This is for your collection. Keep it safe.  
PS.: Just get the hint already, you thick-headed idiot.”  
  
The other paper said:  
“ **Harry Potter gay, but who stole his heart?  
** \- by Rita Skeeter, journalist of _The Daily Prophet  
  
_ Ever since Harry Potter came out and told us he was gay, he has also hinted there was one man in particular who had caught his eye. He refuses to tell us outright who it is, but on some questions he has answered honestly. This reporter has asked him a few times to describe the man in question. The answer was clear, but not very helpful. The man is a student of his year in Hogwarts, and they had quite a bit of contact those days. Harry Potter tells us the man who stole his heart played an important role in the Second Wizarding War. More about this role or the man’s position, he would not give. Some classmates of the Saviour have suggested a few names, none of which sound very plausible. The names in question are: Ron Weasley, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas and a few more. When mentioning these names in an interview, Harry Potter gives no visible reaction. Thus, those names are out of the questions. It almost seems like Harry Potter is _not_ in love with a Gryffindor classmate!  
                Many people know that Harry Potter barely had any contact with Hufflepuffs, especially with Hufflepuff boys. There is one Ravenclaw name that keeps popping up (Terry Boot), but not even that one can weasel a reaction out of the Boy-Who-Lived.  
                When asked what Harry Potter thinks of his Slytherin classmates, he tries his best to give them all a redemption. The fact that he testified in favour of Draco Malfoy and his mother, gives us something to think about. Unfortunately, Harry Potter strongly ignored every question about his reasons to help the boy. He only said he had seen Malfoy in his worst, and knew that the boy wasn’t evil. He also reminded us of the times Draco Malfoy and his mother Narcissa Malfoy had saved him. After this, he asked to be left alone so he could go home.  
                All in all, it is an interesting issue to think about. Harry Potter is gay, and none of his classmates seem to have any idea who might have caught his fancy. He seems to be unwilling to tell us who it is. This journalist will keep you informed of every snippet of information the finds.”  
  
Draco’s mouth fell open. It must be true then. Potter must like him. But why  
He stood up, ignoring the looks from Pansy and Blaise, and called his owl. Quickly grabbing a quill and some paper, he wrote the letter to Potter and sent his owl away. On the paper, there was only one word: “Why?”  
  
**2000, at the first day of work  
** Draco walked into his office to see someone sitting in his chair. He knew who it was before he saw him.  
“Potter.”  
  
The chair swivelled around, so Potter was now facing him. He had a huge grin on his face. “Hi there,” he said. Draco pointedly looked at his chair, and Potter grinned wider.  
  
“What are you doing in my office, Potter?” Draco asked after a moment of just looking at green eyes.  
“I believe you asked why. So I am here to explain.”  
  
Draco stifled a gasp. “No. No, you are not. You are going to your own department, and I am going to do my job and pretend none of this happened. Go. Now.”  
Potter stood up, but Draco should have known the man wouldn’t give up so easily.  
  
“I started when you saved my life. I felt the need to save yours as well. Didn’t think much about it then, it seemed only logical. Then I was incredibly disappointed when you walked to your parents. Well, that could be explained by simple logic as well. Why I spoke in favour of you and your mother was clarified by what I had seen and by the fact that I knew you couldn’t have killed me if you wanted to. The pride I felt when you stood up to testify against your fa – Lucius, I don’t know, I just felt it. Then I wanted to keep hanging around you, and I thought it was to make sure you were alright. You didn’t exactly deserve to be killed or discriminated, so I wanted to prevent that.  
But when you shut me out and never looked at me, or talked to me, I knew. It was so painful to see you laughing with others, but have your gaze turn to ice whenever you saw me. I knew it wasn’t because I wanted to protect you. You were quite safe on your own. I knew it wasn’t because I thought we were friends. I didn’t think that.  
I knew it was because I missed you so much. I was so dependent on you being around me, influencing me, correcting me. And, honestly, I knew I was gay when Ginny and I broke up. I just didn’t know it was _you_ who was to blame.  
So I was thinking about the time when I was pestering you, and about your collection, and I realised. Perhaps you did like me. And I started a campaign to try and find out. You must have wondered why my friends suddenly started talking to you in the hallways, or why your friends started casually mentioning me in conversations. So when I thought that there was a chance, just a small chance, that you liked me, I cut out this article and gave it to you. And so, here we are. You asked me why, and I can tell you all the reasons why I like you, but you need to do some work today. So, I would like to officially ask you out on a date. Tonight. I’ll pick you up from this office.”  
  
Draco thought he would be silenced, for the first time in his life, but his mouth started talking.  
  
“First of all, Potter, thank you for admitting that you were pestering me. Second, just know to never snoop in my belonging, if I tell you not to. If I would have wanted you to know, I would have told you. Seems clear to me. Thirdly, of course you think I am to blame. When have you ever thought it was not me? Furthermore, don’t talk about my collection ever again. And what exactly did you think when you wrote that little note? You knew Pansy and Blaise would read it, do you have any idea what kind of foul tricks they have pulled to get me to tell them? I am only waiting for the Veritaserum. In addition to that, no. You won’t pick me up from this office. Do you really think I am going to wear this on a date? The fact that you have no style, doesn’t mean that I have to lower my standards.”  
  
“I know you have a spare set of clothing in your office. Date clothing.”  
  
“Still, it doesn’t matter. Because I am not going on a date with you.”  
  
Potter’s smile faltered a bit. Draco felt evil, and loved it.  
  
“Potter, dates are for people who don’t know whether they like each other enough to start a relationship.”  
  
Potter smile strengthened again. Draco wanted to torture the man some more, but he was craving for it. And being a selfless Slytherin, he wouldn’t deny himself what he wanted.  
  
“So, no, I am not going on a date with you. You are either all in, or all out. Make up your mind, but kindly leave my office while doing so.”  
“I don’t have to make up my mind, Malfoy.”  
  
Draco examined the man’s face to see whether he was in earnest.  
  
“Alright then. What is it that you want?”  
Potter laughed softly. He opened the door of Draco’s office and motioned for Draco to come closer. Potter grabbed his hand, pulled him close and kissed Draco on his forehead.  
“I’ll still take you to dinner tonight,” he whispered. Draco felt his insides scream to smile. He also felt the eyes of everyone in the office on the two of them. He debated what was more important: his reputation of being an emotionless prat, or Potter.  
  
Eventually, he smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm silently craving your comments so please leave them.
> 
> Tumblr: i-am-and-proud


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